Prudence

by Gail Carriger

  “Do cabbages have napping practices?”

  “They might. And how would you know if you didn’t join me?”

  Percy considered. “You make a valid point. Some of my research books on the subject of India are quite dated and inexcusably superficial in their treatment of native culinary practices. After all, how can one avoid chilli peppers if one doesn’t adequately track their movements and migration patterns?”

  “Chillies have migration patterns?”

  “Don’t interrupt. Where was I? Oh yes. Of course, I read Hindustani and Punjabi and if I could get my hands on some primary sources I shouldn’t be disappointed. But couldn’t you and Primrose pick those up for me and bring them back?”

  “No.” It was Rue’s turn to be difficult. “We most definitely could not.”

  Percy looked at her. “No, I suppose you would have no earthly idea what a true academic requires on the matter of chilli peppers.”

  “As you say.”

  Percy paused. “Very well, I shall come,” he capitulated suddenly and with great decisiveness. “Where is that valet with the tea?”

  “You never rang for him.”

  “I didn’t? Oh well. When do we leave? It should only take me a month or so to pack.”

  “The evening after tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “I shall send Dama’s carriage for you. The Spotted Custard is moored in Regent’s Park. His driver will know the way. I’ll have him call tomorrow afternoon in case you’d like to take some books over early and settle them in. And you’ll need to research aether current navigation and aerial maps of India.”

  “I will? That sounds rather jolly. Spotted Custard, eh? New kind of pudding, is it? Delish. Can I finish with the quinces first?”

  “No, the quinces will wait.”

  “I understand that’s one of the advantages.”

  “What?”

  Percy explained, animated. “Quinces store very well, better than crab-apples. In cellars, and cupboards, and wardrobes, and hatboxes, and what have you.”

  “Oh, do they? Very interesting, Percy dear. Perhaps I’ll have Cook order some for the journey. But you’ll still have to change study subjects for the time being. India, I’m afraid, must take precedence.”

  “Hard taskmistress,” Percy grumbled.

  “I’m sure you’ll become accustomed to it. You may bring the quince books along. You might have time to read as we float.”

  Percy didn’t answer. He was at one of his shelves, combing through scrolls, rolled-up maps, and current charts.

  Rue rang for the valet.

  A harried young personage appeared. Rue gave him a funny look. Had Percy elevated the boot-black boy in lieu of any other household staff?

  “Pack your master’s portmanteau for a float to India, a month or more’s journey. Please don’t forget his daily necessities. You know how he gets when he’s researching. And try to keep him from bringing too many books. I’ll be sending around a carriage tomorrow around teatime. Please ensure the first load is aboard and that he goes with it to see to his quarters. You’ll also be joining us since someone has to look after him. I hope that’s agreeable. I will, of course subsidise your remuneration. We leave the evening after next, currents permitting.”

  The young man was not at all discombobulated. In fact, he looked thrilled. Well, life with Percy was probably extremely dull. “And Footnote, miss?”

  “Footnote?”

  “Himself’s cat.”

  Upon hearing his name, said cat stood up from behind a pile of books and swayed over, emitting a chirrup of inquiry.

  “Whatever possessed Percy to acquire a cat? He can’t even take care of himself.”

  The boy suppressed a chuckle. “The cat acquired us, I’m afraid, miss.”

  “The best ones always do.” Rue chucked Footnote under the chin. He emitted a mighty purr of approval. Rue was lost. “Oh, bring him along. Every ship should have a cat. Perhaps he can help with the pigeon problem.”

  “Very good, miss.”

  Footnote flopped over onto his back presenting his chin for further scratching. He was an attractive animal, mostly black with white markings, as though smartly dressed for the theatre. Better dressed than Percy ever was, that’s certain. Rue left off cat-worshipping reluctantly.

  The valet made his farewell bow.

  “Oh,” Rue added before he shut the door, “bring Percy up some tea, please.”

  “And nibbly bits,” mumbled Percy, digging through scrolls, maps flying, not looking up.

  “And nibbly bits,” added Rue. Footnote trotted after the valet, possibly intrigued by the mention of nibbly bits.

  “Yes, Lady Prudence.”

  “Oh dear, have we met before?”

  “No, my lady, but I’ve heard of you. And I guessed that you couldn’t be the Honourable Primrose Tunstell.”

  “No? We do look alike.”

  “Yes, my lady, but himself’s not yelling at you.”

  “A good point you make there…?” Rue trailed off, questioningly.

  “Virgil, my lady.”

  “Ah, I see why Percy hired you. He always has had great affection for the ancient scribes.”

  “My lady?”

  “The tea, please, Virgil.”

  Virgil made her a second bit of a bow and scampered off. Footnote biffed along after him, tail up with the tip tilted like a small furry flag.

  Rue turned her attention back to Percy, “Nice young man, Percy. No idea what he’s doing with you.”

  “Good name,” muttered Percy.

  Rue sighed and made her way through the chaos of books and out into the hall. “I shall see you soon.”

  Percy came to the study door and waved a dismissive map at her. “Unfortunately.”

  Rue knew Percy well enough to realise that this was the best she was going to get out of him so she let herself out with as much dignity as possible. She did trip over a small stack of Beeton’s Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine and Fashion Tips next to the automated hat cleaner in the hallway. Since he was entirely the opposite of fashionable Rue was mystified by their presence. One never knew why with Percy.

  Thereafter, Rue spent the majority of her waking hours on The Spotted Custard supervising the hiring of the last of the deckhands and staff, meeting her crew, redecorating her chambers, and ensuring they had adequate stores for the journey. Scientists had recently shown that sunflowers were a great natural disinfectant of the poisonous humours in the upper atmosphere. Just to be on the safe side, Rue had twelve potted sunflowers brought in for the decks, fresh-cut placed in all the rooms, and dried clustered everywhere else. She even stocked seeds for regrowing or consumption, whichever seemed best. Sufficient puff pastry was also of paramount importance, although perhaps not so public a health concern. Lady Prudence Akeldama had quite the sweet tooth and it was impossible for her to imagine a journey of a week, let alone a month, without an adequate supply of custard and puff pastry.

  This frazzled the cook. “It’s the milk we’ll run out of first, captain. It does tend to spoil.”

  Rue considered the matter seriously. “I shall coordinate stopovers for milk restocking. We would have to regardless, for the sake of the tea. I require milk in my tea every day, several times a day.”

  The cook wrung his hands together. “Yes, captain.”

  “And cheese – Miss Tunstell loves cheese.”

  “Of course, captain.”

  “Prepare a list of perishable necessities not adequately covered by our admirable refrigeration facilities – one should be timed weekly and the other once a fortnight. Let me see what are our most limiting supplies and what I would have to endure if we are only able to make bi-monthly stopovers.”

  “Yes, captain, but the fuel?”

  “Is not your concern. Although I understand some of the empire’s outpost aether-stations carry both coal and milk.”

  The cook gave a little bow. “Aye aye, captain,” and he ran off to tend
to his lists.

  A massive crash above distracted Rue from her galley coordination. “Great ghosts, what’s that?” Her exclamation was met with shrugs from the kitchen staff.

  Rue marched topside. The loading gangplank was down and the main deck was crawling with confused crew. An entire flock of hats had landed and were nesting near the quarter deck. A massive overturned trunk and hatboxes rolling everywhere appeared to be behind the millinery invasion.

  Primrose had arrived.

  Or at least Primrose’s accessories had arrived.

  Rue looked over the railing. The lady in question was standing in an open-topped carriage gesticulating wildly with two parasols as a stream of footmen unloaded an entire other carriage full of baggage.

  Rue waved. “Cooey!”

  Prim looked up. “Oh, Rue, you wouldn’t believe the bother.”

  “Why all the hats?”

  Prim gave her an exasperated look, easy to see even at a distance and under the shade of a wide bonnet trimmed with silk butterflies. “It’s the only way she would let me come.”

  “Who?”

  “Gracious me, Rue. Need you ask? Mother, of course.”

  “Of course. Was she terribly difficult to persuade?”

  “Terribly. And she only gave me permission when I promised to bring a hat for every possible crisis, land or air, rain or shine, England or India, sweet or savoury. It was a nightmare. I was at Château de Poupes for over four hours last night. Four hours!”

  “How is Uncle Rabiffano? Still upset about me stealing his form?”

  “Not at all. Much better now actually, as I spent a vast amount of Queen Mum’s money at his establishment. As you can probably tell by all the hats he foisted on me. Mother should never have opened that unlimited purchasing account. Your Uncle Rabiffano takes terrible advantage.”

  “Shall we stop yelling? Come aboard. I’ll give you tea. You can tell me all about your shopping woes. We’ve got this marvellous kettle tube thing, mounts above the reserve in engineering and runs directly to the galley. Allows for hot water at any time in a veritable instant, as long as the boilers are running.”

  “I’m sure that’s quite a spiffing notion but can it wait? After I’ve supervised the unpacking, I really must make some calls. I’m surprised you don’t have to.”

  “In that case I’ll come to you.” Rue made her way down the gangplank, almost knocked off it by two footmen carrying between them another massive trunk. “More hats?” Rue asked, not too surprised.

  “Parasols, miss,” grunted one.

  “Oh, dear,” said Rue.

  She attained the ground safely and went to hand Prim down from the carriage, there being no gentlemen around to perform the obligation, and the footmen all occupied with baggage. Prim looked to tumble out soon, she was waving her parasols so vigorously, as if guiding a floatillah of airships into land.

  “Goodness, Prim, you’ll do yourself an injury. Come down from there.”

  Prim came down, fanning herself with one hand and prodding at a clumsy footman with her parasol with the other. “Careful with that, Fitzwilliam!”

  “You know we are only going for two months at the very most? This is not the Taking of the Fortress of the Fashionless.”

  Prim sighed. “It was much easier not to argue with Queen Mums on the subject. Besides, the more I packed, the less I’d have to go back for. Speaking of which, do you think I could stay aboard tonight before we leave? Best not to give her the opportunity to change her mind.”

  “I’m surprised she let you come at all.”

  Prim nodded. “You and me both. I think it helps that she doesn’t know Percy’s joined up. Both her precious eggs in one floating basket —? There will be histrionics the entire time we are away. London is going to be in for it when she finds out.”

  “Aunt Ivy doesn’t know I’ve got both of you?” Rue looked uncomfortable. Prim might see her mother as mainly an annoying busybody, but Aunt Ivy was still a vampire hive queen with all the power and authority that that incurred. She could make life very difficult when she was unhappy, which London had reason to know – personally.

  “He hasn’t told her. You know Percy. Could be intentional or it might have legitimately slipped his addlepated mind.”

  “Oh, yes, speaking of your horrible brother, Dama’s carriage is arriving. I sent it ’round to retrieve him.”

  “Really?”

  “To be fair, I sent it to retrieve his books. Percy was bound to follow.”

  “Safe assumption.”

  The carriage in question – a gilt horse-drawn affair, like something from a nursery rhyme, complete with trailing blue ribbons and enamel panels depicting beautiful romantic tableaux of goose girls and Greek heroes – pulled up next to them. Percy, an incongruous occupant for even the most ordinary of carriages, unfolded from within, rumpled and harried. He still wore his favourite smoking jacket, although he had substituted cream linen trousers for the tweed with the result that he looked rather like a cricket player cross-bred with a librarian. He’d forgotten a hat and his red hair was sticking up wildly in all directions in a fair imitation of a werewolf after full moon night.

  His little valet followed. Virgil’s eyes were wide and mouth slightly open as he caught sight of the dirigible and the chaos of luggage surrounding it.

  The Spotted Custard now boasted a completely finished exterior. Her balloon had indeed been painted bright red with black spots and coated in the necessary lacquers and oils to make her weather-resistant. She shone in the late afternoon light like some large, fat, round seedpod. The trim of the gondola section was picked out in shiny black, a stark contrast to the pale blond wood. Railings and other details shone darkly beautiful in the late afternoon sun. Dama had insisted that black was the perfect choice, being a colour that matched anything. “Now, when you lean picturesquely against the railings, my Puggle, your dress will never clash.”

  “Very well reasoned, Dama,” had been Rue’s straight-faced response.

  Percy looked about with utter indifference.

  “Well, Percy,” said his sister, drawing his attention to her presence. “What do you think?”

  “Why name the craft after a comestible and then decorate it like a Coccinellidae?”

  Rue knew better than to attempt reasoning with Professor Percival Tunstell. “Because I like it that way.”

  Percy wrinkled his nose at her and then, distracted, leapt forward. “Do be careful – those documents are hundreds of years old!”

  Rue summoned Percy’s valet with a subtle gesture. “Virgil, be a dear and steer him up that gangplank and down below into the library, would you, please? Spoo here will show you the way.”

  Spoo obliging appeared at Rue’s elbow and nodded at the young valet. “Oi up, me duck?” she said, or something equally unintelligible.

  Virgil looked askance at the soot-covered girl, near his own age but remarkably scruffy and laddish by comparison. “Good afternoon,” he said, remembering his manners. Then he looked up at Rue, panicked. “Himself won’t like it if this one goes anywhere near those there scrolls.”

  Rue grinned. “Ah, good. Spoo, follow those trunks, pretend to be helpful and try to touch them but don’t actually do so.”

  “If you say so, captain.” Spoo, irrepressibly good-natured, trotted off to do exactly as she had been instructed.

  Percy instantly panicked and ran after the girl as she rendered – what Percy was certain was – smudgy doom upon his trunks and satchels of books. Everything else was forgotten as he followed the sootie’s stubby form in gangly worry. Virgil brought up the rear carrying a wicker picnic basket that was yowling in protest, and a good quality hatbox. At least Percy would have one top hat on board. And his cat.

  “Good. That’s him safely ensconced,” said Rue.

  “You’re not worried he’ll escape?” Prim watched her brother with affectionate exasperation.

  “I’ve given instructions for the footmen and porters to wall him in
with his own books. By the time he reads his way out, we should be ready for float off.”

  “You’ll leave a feeding hole?”

  “I’m not a monster.” Rue looked up in time to see yet another conveyance barrelling towards their not-so-secret location. “Speaking of monsters.”

  This contraption was no horse-drawn carriage but a steam-powered locomotive of a most unusual design. It was insect-like in appearance, constructed rather like a pill bug, although it was not intentionally decorated as such – like The Spotted Custard – but only appearing bug-like out of necessity. It was more utilitarian than beautiful, its exterior comprised of darkened metal panels shelling into one another like scales. It belched steam from below this carapace, and smoke from two stiff antennae.

  The steam roly-poly subsided to a stop and a hatch at its top popped open. Quesnel Lefoux’s boyish head poked out.

  “Good afternoon, ladies.” He tipped his hat. He, of course, was impeccably well turned out.

  “Mr Lefoux, how do you do?” Prim gave the inventor a warm smile.

  Rue nodded, her own smile slightly forced.

  “Like that, is it?” Primrose looked at Rue sideways and then suddenly caught sight of something aboard ship that needed her attention. “Oh dear, my skirt tapes appear to be in some danger. The sooties are turning them into slingshots. If you would excuse me.” With which she opened one of her parasols, a frothy white affair with small green embroidered leaves, and bustled up the gangplank. She was wearing a sage travelling dress with cream lace sleeves and collar decorated with more embroidered leaves. Prim had such an enviably effortless style. She used the second, closed parasol, with equal effortlessness to prod her way through the masses.

  Quesnel came over. “And where has the charming Miss Tunstell gone? Was it something I said?”

  “Perhaps the cut of your jib offends,” suggested Rue.

  “I assure you my jib is very well cut indeed.” Before Rue could sputter he changed the conversation. “I can’t say I approve of what you’ve done with the place. Why the spots?”

  “I like spots.”

  “She’s rather over-decorated for a dirigible.”